The Surgeon's Revenge: No More Mrs. Montgomery

Alexa woke up on a cot in the on-call room. Someone had draped a wool blanket over her. Her head felt heavy, stuffed with cotton, and her throat was raw. The ache in her bones was profound, a deep-seated weariness from nearly forty-eight hours of trauma.

She sat up, the memory of the rain and the asphalt rushing back. She looked at her feet. They were bandaged. A nurse must have cleaned the cuts while she slept.

It was 6:00 AM.

She forced herself up. She went to the showers, scrubbing her skin until it turned pink, trying to wash off the feeling of the rain and Fletcher's hate. She put on fresh scrubs. She tied her hair back tight.

When she walked out, she wasn't the woman shivering on a Queens street corner. She was Dr. Emerson.

She walked to the nurses' station. Dr. Susan Chang was there, holding a coffee, whispering loudly to a resident.

"Did you hear? Lewis told the night guard. Fletcher kicked her out of the car. Dumped her like trash."

The resident giggled. "God, that's brutal. Do you think she's homeless now?"

Alexa walked up behind them. She slammed a metal clipboard onto the counter. The sound was like a gunshot.

Susan jumped, spilling coffee on her hand. "Jesus!"

Alexa didn't blink. Her eyes were cold, hard flint. She channeled the last of her adrenaline into her voice, forging it into a weapon. "Dr. Chang. Unless you have a board certification in gossip, I suggest you check the drainage output on bed three. His levels are critical."

Susan opened her mouth to retort, saw the look in Alexa's eyes, and closed it. "Right. On it."

She scurried away.

Alexa spent the day in a fugue state of hyper-competence. She rounded on twenty patients. She caught a medication error that would have killed a man.

At noon, a nurse handed her a phone. "Your husband is texting you. He's called the main line five times."

Alexa looked at the screen. One message.

Come home.

No apology. No explanation. Just a command.

Alexa deleted the message. She handed the phone back. "Block the number."

"But... it's Mr. Montgomery," the nurse stammered.

"Block it," Alexa ordered.

She had a bypass surgery at 2:00 PM. It was a six-hour procedure. For six hours, she stood over a chest cavity, her hands steady, her mind focused entirely on the rhythm of a stranger's heart. It was the only heart she could fix.

When she scrubbed out, it was dark again. The adrenaline faded, leaving her hollow.

She walked out of the hospital entrance. Lewis was there, standing next to the car. He looked miserable. He held a bouquet of white roses.

"Ms. Emerson," he said, stepping forward. "Mr. Montgomery sent these. He... he says he regrets the incident. He was intoxicated."

"Intoxicated," Alexa repeated flatly. She didn't take the flowers. The cloying sweetness of the roses filled the car, a funereal scent that made her stomach turn.

"Please, ma'am. He wants you to come home."

Alexa looked at the car. She should walk away. She should go to a hotel.

But then she remembered the cat.

She had left the cat alone with him. With Martha.

"Open the door, Lewis," she said.

She got in. She sat as far away from the flowers as possible. The smell of roses made her want to retch.